


Suffer For Your Sins

by QuickSilverFox3



Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Alcoholic Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Whump, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Exiled Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: He’d arrived here with nothing. Two hundred and fifty years of life, and he was left with nothing, but alcohol and a hundred years of loneliness in exile.[No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?  Withdrawal]
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nile Freeman, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947016
Comments: 4
Kudos: 98
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Suffer For Your Sins

Half an eye open, and Booker’s nails carved bloody ribbons into his arms as he scrambled up right, bile burning his throat. He gagged but there was nothing in his stomach to vomit up, his entire body convulsing as he tried regardless.

It was exhausting. Sweat stung his eyes, hair plastered to his forehead and he shivered despite the warmth rolling from the blankets surrounding him. 

He’d arrived here with nothing. Two hundred and fifty years of life, and he was left with nothing, but alcohol and a hundred years of loneliness in exile.

He would suffer for his sins.

* * *

Booker twisted, blankets wrapped around his legs, irritably tossing a pillow to one side even as his muscles screamed in protest at the slight motion. Exhaustion pulled on his bones, threatening to overwhelm him at any moment, but he just couldn’t stay still long enough to sleep. 

Before—and he couldn’t help but think of those days with the team, with his family—it was a simple enough matter to curl up with one of the others: Joe’s leg hooked across his hip, Nicky a warm weight in his arms.

The bed was cold and empty, and he just could not sleep. 

* * *

The mirror was cold and unyielding beneath his forehead, his breath fogging up the mirror revealing the network of handprints and smeared fingerprints on its surface. 

Booker snarled, shivers rattling down his spine, teeth chattering together with enough force to split his cracked lips or nip at his tongue. The taste of blood was stale in his mouth, any small cuts healing in a matter of seconds.

His blanket pooled at his feet, formly suffocating him, too warm and every touch setting his skin on fire, but now he wanted it more than anything. Picking it up was beyond him.

* * *

“Hello?”

The door creaked as it swung open, a drunken mishap that Booker hadn’t managed to correct—and likely never would. He stirred, staring blankly at the entrance with eyes that stung like sandpaper, before burying his face back into the mess of blankets.

“Booker?” The bed dipped as Nile sat down next to him, expecting an answer, even as her hands twisted in her jumper. One of Joe’s, the fabric worn soft and hanging to her knees. She left it behind when she left, and Booker slowly dragged it on, every movement painful, and slept deeply for the first time.

* * *

“Open up,” Booker snarled, beating numb hands against the window, palms coming away streaked with grime. He could go outside to escape the stifling heat that seemed to be burning through him, but he couldn’t face interacting with other people, the words seeming to choke and die in his throat whenever he tried to find the words to speak with the delivery people.

Tears burned as they overflowed, running down his cheeks, salt cold on his lips, and he pressed against the window again, strength borne from fury allowing the aged wood to give. He gasped in the clear air.

* * *

The blankets were ripped from him, light piercing his eyes and Booker groaned, rolling over with a bitten back groan of pain, dragging a pillow over his eyes. He was allowed a brief second of reprise before that too was stolen from him.

“You need a shower,” Joe informed him, haloed in the sunlight, his smile warm.

“You need a shower,” Booker told him, his head feeling like it was wrapped in cotton wool.

“Excellent.” Joe’s grin only widened, his hands almost blistering warm as he pressed them against Booker’s shoulders, squeezing them tightly. “We can take one together then.”

* * *

The water felt it was burning him, but Booker couldn’t get away. He was too weak, too tired to do much more than try and stand as the water spilled over his shoulders. Joe kept a constant murmur in words Booker was too tired to make out, but they were a comfort. 

He thought he had lost this, their easy camaraderie. He deserved to have lost it after what he had done.

The questions threatened to choke him, lining his throat in a tangled mess, but he swallowed them back, unwilling to break off Joe’s contact. Selfish to the end.

* * *

“Why are you both here?”

Booker’s question was given around a mouthful of pasta, gently steaming and bursting with herbs and fresh vegetables. Nicky had slipped out when Joe had half-carried Booker into the shower, muttering curses at the state of Booker’s fridge which was empty. 

Nicky glanced at Joe, centuries of communication in that one look, and Booker shovelled another forkful into his mouth, knowing that the guilt that flowered in his chest was irrational.

He loved them too much to hurt them again. He was truly broken and he would fix himself to be worthy of their love.

* * *

“Exile was… necessary,” Joe began with a sigh, reaching out to smooth a thumb over the back of Booker’s neck, to tangle his fingers in the fine hair there. “Enough Time apart to learn, enough time away to be your own person rather than one of us.”

“But not to be cruel,” Nicky added, carefully reaching out and laying his hand palm-up. Booker moved carefully, the flashes of pain just enough to make him grit his teeth, giving Nicky time to pull away. He didn’t and Booker wept, forehead pressed to the wood of the table, tears a burning salvation.

  
  


“You will get better.” Booker had lost his faith when his child had cursed him with his dying breath, carrying the guilt around his neck like a noose, but Nicky hadn’t. His words were prayer and certainty, delivered with a smile and kiss. 

* * *

“There’s enough food in the fridge until we next come back.” Joe drew him in for a hug, warm and solid, and Booker couldn’t help but curl into the embrace. 

They would be back. He wasn’t abandoned.

The withdrawal would be awful, had been awful, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel now.


End file.
